I didn’t do everything right, but I gave it my all.
Worked overtime. Skipped vacations. Made sure my kids had everything they needed—quietly, without asking for thanks. I used to joke my retirement was invested in their futures.
Now, with a terminal diagnosis and not much time left, I reached out. Called, texted, emailed all three of them. Just said, “Call me. It’s important.”
Nothing.
No replies. Not even a “sorry, been busy.” I told the hospice nurse, “They’re probably just swamped.” She smiled kindly—the kind that understands too well.
I couldn’t stand the silence, so I left the house and wandered into a coffee shop. There, I ran into Elena, a childhood friend of my daughter Mia. We talked, and when she asked, “Do you see your kids often?” I hesitated. “They’re busy,” I said. “But doing fine.”
That night, I watched old home videos. Laughter. Love. Memories. And I knew—I had to go to them.
Two days later, I showed up at Mia’s door. She was surprised but let me in. We sat quietly before I said, “You haven’t called.”
She looked guilty. “I’ve been overwhelmed.”
And then I told her the truth: “I’m dying. And none of you noticed.”
She cried. We held hands. We talked. Really talked.
After that, the others reached out. Visits followed. Laughter returned. The warmth slowly came back.
It wasn’t the apologies that healed me—it was their presence.
Because even late, even messy—love is still love.
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